


Poughkeepsie

by dcjuris



Series: Being Human [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Don't Try This At Home, Flogging, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Wincest - Freeform, definitely not the way to approach bondage and flogging, destiel kinda sorta, established wincest relationship, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: (Follows the show up to the angels falling. No angel possession of Sam. Castiel is human and doesn't get banished from the Bunker. Sam is fine.) Cas starts having urges and Dean agrees to help him explore them. Everything is fine, until it all goes wrong.





	Poughkeepsie

They're sitting at the breakfast table, Sam perusing his email on his lap top, Dean wolfing down his third helping of bacon, when Cas clears his throat.

"Could I talk to you both about something?"

Dean nods. "Sure. What's up?"

And that's anybody's guess, really. Cas has been human for a little over three months now and the world outside the bunker is mostly foreign to him. Though he's getting better, they will collectively never forget the ex angel learning how to navigate his new emotions, bursting into tears over the smallest things or worse: laughing his ass of at The. Most. Inappropriate. Times.

"I've been having... urges."

Dean nearly chokes on his bacon.

Sam sputters into his coffee mug. He closes his computer with a soft snick. "What um... what kind of... urges?"

They've had the Sex Talk with Cas. He knows what goes where—knows the how's and why's. Sam even spent a few hours teaching him how to search for porn and patiently answering all manner of questions—Dean's favorite had been _Why do they call it a golden shower? Urine is not gold and if anything this seems to be more of a spray than a shower..._ Hell, the younger Winchester even drew on his own experience for some of his answers—Dean knows because he remembered—and had a starring role in—most of the stories. They wait in silence while Cas' face goes from pale to pink to downright fire engine red.

"Hey, its okay." Sam reaches over and squeezes his arm. "You can tell us anything. Just take your time."

Cas nods and heaves a sigh. "I think they're sexual in nature. The urges, that is."

"You _think_?" Dean echoes. Cause... they either are or they aren't.

"I suppose they aren't necessarily tied to sex, though I do end up self gratifying after I dwell on them."

Dean coughs again and Sam sends bitch face #34 his way. "That definitely sounds sexual."

"What do the urges involve?"

Trust Sam to go all Doctor Phil over breakfast. Dean pushes back his chair and meanders over to the counter for more coffee. It's probably too early for something stronger, right? He glances at the clock. 8:45. Yep.

"I... it involves you. One of you. Or both. Sometimes both."

Dean quirks and eyebrow. Them and Cas? Not an entirely unwelcome idea. They've discussed it, Sam and him, more than once.

"What happens?" Sam asks.

Cas looks down at the tabletop, runs his fingers along the edge. "I um..."

Sam's still gripping his arm, and he slides his hand up and down.

"I tie one of you up...or both of you...and I... I...flog you."

All the warmth leaves Dean's body in a rush, so fast he's sure it makes a sound. His breath hitches in his chest and he turns away from them to lean on the sink, knuckles white and popping with the strain. The image of Sam, naked and bloody, stretched out on The Rack rises up in his mind and it's all he can do not to vomit. He barely registers there's still a conversation going on behind him until two words ring loudly in Sam's voice.

"I'm willing."

No. No. No. No. Fucking goddamn _no_. Not Sam. He can't see Sam like that. Never again. And it doesn't even matter that the Sam he saw trussed up for slaughter wasn't the real Sam. No. Absolutely unequivocally never in a million years fucking no!

"Dean!"

Sam's holding him from behind, maneuvering them back across the kitchen. Cas is on the floor, rubbing his jaw. Dean shakes his head hard. What the hell?

"Breathe, Dean. Breathe. It's okay." Sam's lips press against his ear as he whispers the words. "It's okay."

Dean sags back against him as Cas finally gets to his feet. What just happened? "Sammy?"

"It's okay. You just kinda freaked out and punched Cas, man."

Cas rubs his jaw. "It seems you're not amenable to the idea of Sam being tied up."

Rage shimmers through him again, making him shake.

"Cas just...give us a few, ok?" Sam turns them around, so Dean is no longer facing Cas, and that's probably a really good idea.

Cas shuffles out of the room with a mumbled apology, and Dean instantly feels like shit. So much for being able to tell them anything.

Sam presses kisses against the back of Dean's head. "You ok?"

Dean scoffs. "Peachy."

"Talk to me."

And god, he'd rather cut off his own right arm than have this conversation. But since he just decked their best friend... "Sometimes it was you. On The Rack."

Sam makes a strangled little noise and buries his face in Dean's shoulder. "I get it. I'll tell him no."

"I just... You can't." His voice breaks on the last word and he swallows hard. Just the thought of it, even if he weren't in the room to actually see it, is too much.

"I won't. I promise."

It occurs to Dean that maybe Sam offered because he wanted to...to...be... He chokes on air as he tries to breathe.

"Easy, easy. I'm right here. I'm safe." Sam holds onto him, whispers to him, and rocks him from side to side.

Dean has no idea how long they stay like that, how long it takes for the rage to crest and ebb away, for the shaking to stop. All he knows is he's exhausted when it's finally over.

Sam urges him down into a chair and brings him a cup off whisky-laced coffee.

Dean downs half the cup in two gulps, despite the heat, feels it burn all the way down his throat and settle in his belly. He can't shake the idea that maybe Sam wants it, wants to be tied up and… "If you really want to—"

"Not gonna happen."

"Sam—"

"Dean, I can't. Even if I wanted to, how could I enjoy it knowing it hurts you like this?"

Wait, what? "You… what do you mean even if you wanted to? You don't _want_ to?"

Sam swipes a hand through his hair and sits back with a huff. "I mean, I'd do it, for Cas. You know? To help him figure shit out or"—he waves his hand in the air—"whatever. But I'm not, like, into it. Believe me, I've been tied up enough over the years."

Letting someone tie you up when you don't really want to be is a long way to go for friendship, and Dean says as much.

"Cas isn't just a friend though. Is he?"

And no, he's not. He's been their salvation, their damnation, their responsibility, their curse. But he's never been just a friend. "Yeah, you're right."

Sam slides his hand up along Dean's arm, over his shoulder, and grips the back of his neck. "We'll find him some books or some porn or something, okay? And if he really wants to explore it, then we'll do some research and we'll find him someone."

The idea of someone they don't know being with Cas that way, watching him, submitting for him, giving him that experience…it doesn’t sit well with Dean. "Really? We're gonna hand him off to some…some stranger? What if they're some kinda weirdo?"

"We'll vet them first, obviously." He squeezes Dean's neck.

"Yeah. No." Dean stands and paces. Sam can't do it. That's written in stone. But he can't stomach the idea of someone new doing it, either. Someone who doesn't know Cas the way they do, who doesn't know his quirks. Maybe… maybe he can do it. He doesn’t like being tied up—like Sam, he's had his fill for a lifetime. But it's better than the alternative. "I'll do it."

"What? No. Dean, you can't."

"Was it…the same for you? Down…down there?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. That's not what I mean. I'm not against it, but Dean… you've been… It might be…" He sighs. "Look, I'm not trying to pick a fight, okay? But you might not be able to handle it."

It's a valid concern—one he doesn’t have an answer for. "Could you?"

Sam lets out a breath through pursed lips. "I think I could. I'd try it. But not if you're aren't on board."

Maybe if it happens when he's not there? He could take a hunt, some perfect solo salt and burn.

"I know what you're thinking, so stop. Even if you're not here, you're going to know it's happening, and it's going to bother you. I don’t want to do it like that. We'll find some other way."

***

Three weeks later, Dean tugs on the cuffs that bind his wrists to the St. Andrews cross in the dungeon. He built the thing himself after their online search, displeased with the prices of the good quality ones, annoyed with the shoddy quality of the cheaper ones. Freestanding, it's just this side of too much like The Rack, but he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind as he turns his head to the side and tries to settle against the wood.

"Are you certain of this?" Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, and it takes everything Dean has not to flinch.

"Yep." He pops the _p_ and nods. "This isn't even my whole night."

"You seem reluctant."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Gee, Cas, I'm buck naked, spread eagle on a hunk of dead tree waiting for my best friend to whip the shit out of me. I can't imagine why I might seem reluctant."

"If you don't want to do this—"

"I'm here, aren't I?" He shakes his leg. "Get on with it already."

Cas kneels behind him and fastens the cuffs around his ankles. He stands, dragging his hands up Dean's legs and lower back to his shoulders, kneads his fingers into the muscles. "For what it's worth, you look beautiful like this."

And right now? It ain't worth much. But he nods and forces a smile he hopes is convincing. It must be, because Cas walks away to the little table Sam set up in the corner of the room. At least, Dean assumes he does—his face is turned the other way. But it's the only plausible thing for Cas to be doing.

Cas comes back over, steps deliberate and somehow in tune with the hammering of Dean's heart, as if the ex-angel can hear it. Maybe he can. Maybe there's some residual grace left behind, some small glimmer. Maybe that's what's at the root of these urges—some shred of the holy warrior trying to make itself known. Bloodlust that doesn't know the battle is over. Who knows with him?

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Did you choose a safe word?"

"Broccoli."

"Broccoli?"

"What, you don't like it?"

"It seems rather common."

"Cas, when have I ever said the word broccoli?"

"Fair point. Alright then. Broccoli. I will begin now." Cas circles him twice, looks him up and down, eyebrow raised, as if appraising his worth, and…and that's…that's kinda hot, actually. Maybe he can get on board with this after all.

The first hit from the flogger doesn't hurt at all. Barely even stings. Cas is holding back, though Dean's not sure if it's for his benefit or Cas' own. It's not like either of them has ever done this. Well… Not _in this way._ There was that time when Cas was disciplined for helping them. Is this what happened? Did the other angels flog him? Maybe that's where this is coming from.

Dean hisses as the tails land against his back again, this time harder. Cas put some weight behind that hit. It's still not bad. It doesn't hurt continually—it's more of a surprise, a flare of bright pain, and then a fade. Another hit comes, harder, and Dean's still okay. Surprisingly so. He can do this.

Pride swells in his chest as Cas rains down hit after hit and Dean takes them all. He's never really been able to give Cas much—what the hell can you give a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent after all? He's saved him, but they've saved each other, so that doesn’t count. But he's seven hits in, and he's doing fine. It's not turning him on, he's not even at half mast, but Cas is breathing heavy behind him, and each hit is getting progressively harder, so that must be a good sign. Cas must be getting whatever it is he needs out of this, and that makes Dean happy.

"You take the pain so well, Dean."

And just like that, it all comes crashing down. They're not the exact words Alastair spoke, but they're close enough. Dean's brain short circuits. He's in the pit, strung up on The Rack. He feels the heat all over his body, feels the flames lick and sear his skin, feels the hooks digging into the meat of his arms and legs. He draws in a gulping breath, the fetid stench of his own rotting flesh coats his nostrils, the taste of a dozen or more demons is thick on his tongue. He can't breathe, can't think, can't see—he's drowning in the memories, his chest tight and muscles twisted and aching. From the depths of his mind he manages to pull up one word. Dimly, he knows it's not the right one, but maybe someone will understand him as he screams. "Poughkeepsie!"

***

Sam scrolls through the Netflix menu, but his mind isn't really on the screen. He's worried about Cas and Dean. They've been at it for almost a half hour now and he assumes it must be going at least okay, if not well. He was apprehensive when Dean agreed, even moreso when Dean said he didn't need Sam in the room with them. A part of him is jealous—of course he is. Aside from their ill-fated bungles into _normal_ relationships, Dean has always been his. He wants to be in there, watching. Wants to make sure Cas doesn’t overstep some boundary. Not that Dean has many boundaries.

And maybe that's the problem—maybe he's just worried that Cas will please Dean better. Which is completely stupid. Sam knows Dean—knows his body. He can take Dean from entirely disinterested to desperate and begging in under two minutes flat. And it's not because Dean's easy, because despite what everyone thinks, he's not. It can be difficult to get Dean going at times, and often damn near impossible to get him to let go. No, it's because Sam's that fucking good. Still, he's a possessive lover—a closet Dom, probably, if he ever really put his mind to it—so it's a struggle to sit here and wait.

"Sam!" Footsteps pound down the hall, and Sam's heart immediately picks up the same tempo.

He's off the bed and through the door before Cas gets to him. He pushes past the ex-angel. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

"Did he safe word?"

"No. But he said _Poughkeepsie_."

"Fuck!" Sam runs as fast as he can, skidding to a halt just inside the dungeon door. Dean is thrashing and screaming, slamming his head against the wood over and over. Sam snatches the keys up and shoves them at Cas. "Get him loose!"

Cas is nothing if not efficient, even as a human, and he goes right to work on Dean's left wrist.

"Dean! Dean, hey! Hey! Look at me!" Sam takes his brother's face in his hands and shakes him gently. "Dean!"

Dean's gaze roves around the room wildly in time with his frantic breathing. He's cut his head open on the cross, blood dribbles down into his eyes and that seems to make everything worse. He cries out and tries to wrench his right wrist free, getting more hysterical when he can't.

"Faster, Cas! Faster!" Sam wipes at the blood with his sleeve, trying to clear Dean's eyes or at least keep them from getting any more blocked.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Sam's heart shatters. Is this what happened in The Pit? Did Dean scream for him like this? Did his hardened, brave, warrior of a brother scream for him? Jesus.

Dean's right wrist is free and Sam captures his hands and guides them up around his own neck. "Hold on to me, Dean. I'm right here."

"His feet are free," Cas announces, sitting back on his heels.

"Get wash cloths and the first aid kit. Grab the red bottle of pills out of our medicine cabinet." Sam scoops his brother up into his arms and heads out the door, down the hall to the bathroom. Cas runs off to comply.

Sam kicks the door open and strides to the shower. He turns the cold water on full blast and lowers himself and Dean down onto the shower floor, pulls Dean tight against his chest, tips Dean's head back so the water rains down right onto his face. He's done this before himself, when the heat of memory and nightmare was too real on his skin. This will work. It's a counterpoint to the illusion Dean's stuck in. Nothing in Hell was cool and damp, nothing soothed—Sam knows that first hand. "Shhh. It's okay. Dean it's okay. You're out. You're here, in the bunker."

If Dean can hear him, he doesn’t respond. He starts thrashing again, clawing at the blood in his eyes.

"Stop, stop!" Sam grabs his wrists and pulls his hands away but Dean fights him, caught up in the memories. Sam pins Dean's hands at his sides, wraps his legs around Dean's, hooking his ankles, and settles his chin on Dean's shoulder. "Shhh, it's okay. It's okay, Dean. It's me, Sam. You're in the bunker, you're not in the pit anymore. Cas got you out. You're safe. You're safe now, Dean."

Cas runs in, the first aid kit in one trembling hand, cloths and the red bottle in the other.

Sam shakes his head—they're far from clean up at this point. Dean's still struggling, and Sam's at a loss. Their roles have always been reversed. It's always been Dean comforting him, pulling him close after a nightmare, holding him like a fragile thing in strong arms, singing to him. Wait…singing. Sam starts humming Metallica's "Some Kind of Moster." Gradually, Dean stops screaming, stops trying to fight. He lets out a broken sob and Sam dares to hope a little. "Dean?"

"Sa-Sam? Sammy?" Dean's voice is heartbreakingly small and uncertain.

"Yeah, yeah it's me. Gonna let your wrists go, okay?" Sam lets go of his wrists and looks each one over. Dean managed to scrape them both up on the cuffs, and Sam kicks himself for not getting the padded type. He reaches out for the washcloth.

Cas hands it over wordlessly.

He finishes with Dean's wrists and holds the cloth out to Cas. "Get his face?"

Cas kneels and takes the cloth, seemingly unconcerned with getting wet, but stares for a moment, frozen. "I'm… I'm so sorry."

Sam shakes his head again. "We'll talk about it later. Just…we need to take care of him. He needs us right now, Cas."

That seems to embolden Cas, and he starts to work on the cuts on Dean's forehead, cleaning the remaining blood. He turns off the water when Sam points to it.

Together, they get Dean on his feet and wrapped up in a big, thick towel. Cas holds him steady while Sam strips off his own wet clothes and dries himself and then Dean off. He hefts Dean back up into his arms and heads to their bedroom. "Bring the first aid kit."

At the bedroom, Cas hovers uncertainly in the doorway. "Is there anything more I can do?"

Sam bites back a nasty retort about what Cas has _already_ done. They all agreed to this—it's no more Cas's fault than it is there's. It's Alastair's fault, if it's anyone's. And Sam and Cas both failed Dean tonight. On the one hand, he wants Cas' help, if for no other reason that Cas understanding the extent of Dean's pain. On the other hand, Sam knows his brother would rather cut off his own arm than let anyone see him like this. "I've got him. Just leave the stuff and gimme some time with him."

"If you need anything, please call for me."

"I will." Sam lowers Dean into their bed and paces back to the wall to turn the light on. Hell was always dark for him; maybe the light will help ground Dean in the here and now. Dean watches him silently, tears still flowing from wide, terrified eyes.

Sam swabs on Neosporin and applies a couple bandaids to the cuts on Dean's forehead. One of them could probably use a stich, but he can't bring himself to put Dean through that right now, however minimal it might be. More pain is the last thing he needs. He stows the kit on his desk and swipes up the bottle of pills. It's a prescription of anxiety medicine he keeps filled for the times he just can't handle his own thoughts. Dean's taken them before, and takes them willingly this time, swallowing them down with a grunt. Sam climbs into bed behind Dean, pulls him close again, and wraps himself around his brother, just like in the shower.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers. "I didn't mean to break."

Sam bites down on his tongue to keep from bursting into tears. He's not sure if Dean means tonight or in Hell, but either way, it doesn't matter. Neither time was his fault. He knows Dean will never believe that, though. "Shhh. It's okay."

Dean lifts his hands, digs his fingers into the flesh of Sam's arms and holds on tight.

Sam spends the night humming every Metallica song he can remember.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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